


Closer

by Silverilly



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Bloodplay, Consensual Violence, Consensual Wound-Fucking, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gore, Insecurity, Knifeplay, Major Original Character(s), Mental Health Issues, Necrophilia, Original Character(s), Other, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Reader is an OC, Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Reader Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Wake-Up Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-03-02 22:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13327905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverilly/pseuds/Silverilly
Summary: When you first meet a strange man at your community garden, the first thing on your mind is that you need to be closer to him. The flora insists that you can't let him go, but strangely, the closer you get, the farther he seems to run. Can you hold onto him long enough to discover his secret--and how will he react to yours?





	1. Sun and Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeadlyCrocker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyCrocker/gifts).



> Here it is... the first chapter of the longfic I'm writing for my best friend. Warning: This is going to be violent, and the archive warnings and tags apply for a reason. If you're not okay with this kind of fic, please turn back now. Your safety is very important to me.
> 
> For the record, I also write nice things, sexy and otherwise. If you like my writing but not this (or if you like this and want me to write YOU something like this), check out my Tumblr at "allyitis" for more information. Now, for a very gentle, quiet beginning to what will eventually be a gory mess.

The dirt cakes under your fingernails, the earth hard against your not-yet-calloused hands. You decline the gloves offered to you for the millionth time. It feels better this way, with the Mother under your fingertips, with life growing from outside in, from inside out. You feel more powerful when you turn the soil under your hands, wet and wanting. You feel more powerful, yet safer.

As you bury the bloodied bulbs, sweat curdles along your brow. Gardening is not easy work, the demands as damning as they are consecrating, but today is the perfect day. When you are here, in your garden, the world and you become one, a twisted and electric energy that is constantly filled with the promise of something new. Today, the energy seems greater than ever. The promises are swirling in your blood, an anxious sort of excitement as your heart pushes that blood in endless circles from its centre. The poppies seem to be telling you that today will be _extra_ special—but then, every day that you are here is special. Overhead, the sun beats hot into your skin, browning it, leaving you with more and more souvenirs of your time here. It’s a strange sort of time, endless and yet far too fast, marked only by the passage of that sun.

It passes.

The sun beats warm into your skin, streaking red across the horizon, across the poppies. No one asks you if you want to wear gloves anymore. The chatter is quieter, but it persists. You look up now and again, participate where you can, but of course, your plants are of higher priority. Still, Alix’s cheerful greeting makes you lift your head. It’s not directed toward you, but rather, at someone you’ve never seen before.

“Hello!” he calls out. “Welcome to the garden!”

Your gaze is only just fast enough to catch a glimpse of the newcomer’s face before it’s turned away, obscured by a mop of dirty-blond hair. They’re not close enough for you to hear their mumbling, and before you know it, they’re gone.

Electricity crackles in the dance of your blood.

Your eyes meet Alix’s. “What was that about?” It could be something simple, you know. Sometimes strangers are curious, wanting to know more about the garden while not having much time to stay. This moment is innocuous as a child accidentally kicking a ball over the fence—so why have you been drawn so sharply from your stupor?

Alix doesn’t seem to notice your eagerness, merely shrugging at the question. “I don’t know. He came, he watched, and he left. Seemed a little nervous about something.”

“Nervous…”

You look to the plants around you. Ordinarily, you would never imagine leaving them—not when you’re already so wrapped up in their beauty. And yet, they seem to be trying to tell you something—urging you to do something. The leaves of a nearby oak twist in time with your blood, the blood that has been so full of promises, excited promises, anxious promises, nervous promises.

_Nervous_ , whisper the poppies, and you pull yourself to your feet.

“Rose?” Alix seems a bit surprised by your actions, but there’s no time to explain yourself to him. The stranger could be totally out of reach by now; you can just barely see the shine of his hair. You quicken your pace.

Before the man can get out of sight, you call out to him. “Wait! Um… you!”

The man glances behind him, and his eyes widen. Too late, you realize that you’re pretty much barrelling in his direction—not the greatest way to make a first impression. Even worse, he’s stopped dead in his tracks, and you’re going so fast that you—

“Agh!” With a painful thud, you slam directly into the stranger, bouncing off of him and crumpling to the ground.

“Sorry!” The man’s voice is panicked. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I—I shouldn’t have—I’m really—“

“Ngh,” you reply intelligently. You’re a little dazed from being suddenly on the ground again. Fortunately, you soon regain your speech enough to attempt reassurance. “No, really, it’s my fault…”

You shake your head, trying to clear it, and then look up at him. The sight makes your heart skip a beat. He’s hard to see, silhouetted by the fading sun, but his figure seems to emanate something that you haven’t felt in a long time… something familiar…

You think he might be the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

He starts to back away. “No, no, no, no, nonononononono, I-I-I-I… I should… go…”

A strike of energy hits your heart. “No!” You catch yourself, realizing how sharp your voice is. “I mean… please don’t go. I… Did you come here to garden?”

The man seems to hesitate. At least he’s not moving away any longer. Still, the idea that he might makes it hard to wait for him to speak. Everything in your being is telling you that, for whatever reason, you _need_ to keep him here. The blades of grass under your fingers agree, begging you to stay at his side… or, well, at his feet. Still, if you pounce, he’ll only run. You have to be patient.

You count in your head as you wait for his words, and after the seventeenth second, they finally arrive. “Yes. I… came here to garden. But…” His gaze ventures toward the garden, where Alix and the others have returned to chatting and working.

You pull yourself to your feet and discover that even when you’re standing, the man looms over you. You have to tilt your head upward to meet his gaze—or you would, if he was looking at you. His aversion of eye contact, the gentle flush in his features, the way he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants… it all clicks.

“You’re shy,” you say.

His blush deepens. “I thought I should… I mean, it seemed like a good idea, but… I didn’t expect so many people. And _now_ I… you…”

Your heart warms with affection toward this stranger. His nervousness is so sweet—and so unfounded. After all, who wouldn’t immediately be drawn to this man?

“You should come at night. I like to garden by the moon, but the rest of them usually go home around sundown. It’s a lot quieter then.”

For the first time, he meets your gaze. His eyes are brighter now. “It is?”

His light is contagious. “Yeah.” And this is the truth, if only in the purest of senses. By night, it certainly is quiet, with none of the pressures of socializing trapping you—but you’re not ready to reveal that it’s under the songs of crickets that the garden’s harmony seems at its loudest. There is a hum under moonlight that seems so different from the day’s grand symphonies, and you ache to tell him, but it’s so much better if he just experiences it for himself.

“And would…” He hesitates. “Would you be there?”

You consider your options. More than anything, you want to be there with him, helping the earth thrive in silver beside him… but if he wants to be alone, then… as much as it makes your heart sink, you know you’d give up even yourself for his happiness. “Only… if you wanted me there."

He's quiet for a second, and then: "I want you there."

You feel a flush burning into your cheeks. You... weren’t actually expecting him to say yes. Somehow, this makes your heart feel at once enormous and squeezed tight. “Oh… well… okay. Then, um… I’ll see you sometime?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. I’ll… see you.”

He turns to leave, and a sudden thought strikes you. “Wait!”

His shoulders tense, but he faces you again. Now, away from the light, you notice the steely colour of his eyes, the natural pout of his lips in his face, round as the sun—oh, he _is_ beautiful.

“Um…” You snap out of your stare long enough to remember why you stopped him. “I’m Rose. What’s your name?”

His eyes widen. “R-Rose?”

“Oh.” Cool! You have the same name! “Hi, Rose.”

“No!” he says quickly. “I’m not… I’m… I’m Lawrence.” He pauses. “It’s just that… well… Rose is a…” He swallows. “Rose is a nice name.”

Your face is practically burning at this point. “Um. Thank you… Lawrence.”

Looking as embarrassed as you feel, he gives you a small, awkward wave, and then turns from you, his pace quicker than ever. You watch him leave with anticipation thrilling in your heart, and you hear the earth praising you for going after him.

There’s something different about Lawrence.

***

The moon is cool against your skin, your knees sorer than they have ever been. The chatter is gone now, until at last Giada asks if you’re ready to leave.

You look up from your work, startled from your daze. She has a car, and sometimes you catch a ride with her, since you live in the same neighbourhood. Usually, though, you don’t. It’s not a far walk, and you’re never really done when she is. And, of course, tonight… tonight might be extra special. “No, sorry. I’ll just walk. Thank you!”

Giada has never seemed to understand this, but at least she doesn’t seem to mind. With a bemused shrug and a wave goodbye, she disappears into an increasingly misty night.

Over time, the moon no longer touches your skin, eroded by the shadows.

On an average night, the plants are waiting, wondering, curious about you—as you are of them. Of course, they need you. There is a whole garden here, one that needs all of its participants—a community garden, a communal world—but they need you the most. That’s why you stay so much longer than everyone else. Yes, the people—the humans—are friendly. Yes, they are beautiful. Yes, you enjoy your time with them, and often you engage in their chatter. You’ve been to Karl’s wedding. You’ve seen Shauna lose their child. You love the people.

But you love the plants more.

On an average night, you can lose every sense of yourself over the hardening earth, your arms growing cooler and cooler under a darkened dew. The peace of these nights cannot be broken by anything, not anything at all, so long as your plants are safe… but tonight, your mind is frustratingly attached to your body. You cannot stop thinking about Lawrence, wondering, worrying that he won’t come. It gets worse as time goes on, moving so slowly but somehow far too quickly, taking the promise of this stranger away with every moment. You don’t know _why_ you need to see him so badly; you know only that the thought of not seeing him makes you want to take your pruning shears and pull out your intestines.

_Where is he?_

With all your searching, there is no way you could miss him—and yet you find yourself nearly jumping out of your skin when a figure appears at your side, materializing as if from the mist itself.

“Sorry!” His voice is as quick as it is deep. “Um… I’m…”

“You’re _here_.” You can’t keep the relief out of your voice—and you don’t care if it makes you sound desperate. “Hi, Lawrence.”

In the dim light, it’s harder than ever to read his face. You wonder if he’s as happy to see you as you are to see him. Then again, could anyone ever feel the level of warmth you’re feeling right now? For the first time in a long time, the plants are not at the top of your mind. You want to reach out and…

“Hi,” he says softly, and even that simple word is maddeningly wonderful.

The flora around you give a sharp call, bringing you back to reality. Lawrence didn’t come here to talk to you, after all; he came here to garden. You should let him do that. “You can go… um, wherever you want. Do you need any tools? I have some extra—” He shakes his head, raising the tools he’s brought with him. The shadow of a blade makes your stomach flip, but you force yourself to focus as much as you can. “Okay. Then… well, I’ll be… here.”

You kneel by your latest project, breathing in the musky scent of wet earth. Your blood is rushing in your ears, so loud that you can scarcely hear your own thoughts. It only gets louder as he kneels beside you. You hadn’t been expecting him to stay so… close.

You don’t mind.

Together, you and Lawrence work. He doesn’t say much, and you take his lead, muddying your fingers in silence. It’s the quietest the garden has ever been with another person beside you, and yet it feels as though far more is being said. You feel so close to him, so intimately involved, as if he were inside you, a part of you. In this damp night, the plants sing deeper melodies than ever before…

The sun is startling in your eyes as it blinks across the horizon. The… _sun?_

Lawrence seems to notice it as soon as you do. Without a word, he brings himself to his feet. His hair gleams in peach-waves, and your heart aches.

“Wow,” you say softly. He doesn’t respond, so you continue. “I guess… it’s time to go.” You’ve been at the garden for nearly twenty hours, but the thought of leaving puts daggers in your chest.

“Yeah.” Lawrence’s voice is as soft as ever, making you lean forward to hang on to every word. To your surprise, he’s smiling. “But… I liked… this.”

The words send a thrill through your chest. “So did I.” You take a breath, letting your nerves settle before your proposal: “Will you come back sometime?”

Lawrence’s eyes are unreadable; once again, he’s haloed by the sun. “I… don’t know. Maybe… I…”

The energy shifts, the air frosting suddenly. After this night, you had been prepared for him to say he’d be back every night for the rest of eternity; after all, you’ve barely spoken thirty words to each other, but this is how _you_ feel. It’s only now, with the sunrise glowing red on the earth, that you realize something else is happening in Lawrence’s mind.

He’s walking away.

You stand, trying to get closer to him, to better understand. “Lawrence—” You reach out to him.

He yanks his arm away. “I have to go.”

The words are a devastation. “ _Lawrence_ …”

And he runs.


	2. Wallflower

Every evening, you return to the garden. You stay later and later, waiting, wishing for Lawrence. It’s agonizing. You sacrifice sunlight, sacrifice regular life, only to be disappointed night after night when he doesn’t appear—but you can’t give up. You won’t give up. This is the only place you know you can find him, and the thought of never finding him again is unconscionable.

The longer he stays away, the greater your need grows. There is no exact reason that you should feel this way—after all, you hardly know the man—but the plants tell you he is important. Your heart tells you he is important.

Your heart tells you he is like you.

Your hands are calloused from too many hours in the dirt, but the night is only just beginning. Tonight, like every night, Giada offers you a ride home. Tonight, like every night, you turn her down. Tonight, however, is also the first night she talks back. “Rose. I’m taking you home.”

Her words take you by surprise. Giada has never taken issue with your habits before; what makes tonight so different? “Really, it’s okay. I’ll just walk—”

“You’ll walk home. Right.” Giada rolls her eyes, brushing away a thick lock of hair that has come undone from her ponytail. “Look. I know you’ve been staying here until dawn every night this week. Shauna says you were here every night _last_ week, too. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you have got to stop avoiding the days like this.”

You stare at her. “It’s not like that—”

“I don’t care. You’re not staying here tonight. If you won’t go to bed, then we’ll go out. You’re slipping, Rose. You don’t seem like yourself, and that’s not a good thing.”

Your gaze drops from the young woman to your pants. Suddenly, you realize you’ve been wearing the same clothes for—how many days has it been? You’ve lost count, only passing the time as Increasing Moments Without Lawrence. This, of course, doesn’t bother you—after all, your own life is unimportant compared to his—but the look you’ve just seen on Giada’s face does make you feel a little guilty. You didn’t mean to worry anyone. It’s just that you don’t care about yourself, not without him.

But your guilt doesn’t mean you’ll go with her. After all, seeing him again is the most important thing of all, the greatest need you've ever had. What if tonight is the night that things change? He’ll think you’ve abandoned him. He’ll _hate_ you—or worse, he won’t think of you at all.

You plant your hands into the ground, drawing its energy for support—but, to your shock, the support is not there. The Mother, who surely knows that you need to see him, does not tie you to this place. Instead, she urges you to do something… else. Her need is even stronger than your own.

When you meet Giada’s eyes, you see the Mother reflected in them, and it’s this that makes you follow. Though it’s agony to leave the garden, you trust the world around you more than the humans within it. “Okay. Let’s… go out.”

* * *

_What the hell were you thinking, Mom?_

The club is too loud, too bright, humans pushed far too close together. Beads of sweat shine on Giada’s back, on the backs of everyone you can see. Some nights, you can appreciate the beauty of a place like this—of humans, merging and fighting and loving together, cacophonous and yet brightly harmonized—but all you can think now is that there is no place in the entire universe that is less likely to house Lawrence. You remember how he trembled at the tiny crowd of eight or so gardeners; this, surely, would be his nightmare.

Everything inside you has been begging to find him again. How could any path to him begin _here_?

“I’m getting a soda,” shouts Giada, her voice distorted against the ear-splitting DJ that brings the humans pulsing together. Already, she is part of the symphony of humanity, for which you are only an unwilling audience member. “Want anything?”

 _A tall, shy, blond guy_. “A margarita. Thanks.”

You reach for your wallet, but she places her hand over yours. “My treat,” she calls over the music. “You’ve earned it.”

As she disappears into the crowd, you think about it. Have you really earned anything? The only things that have benefitted from your existence lately are the plants in the garden, and even they seem to want to push you away tonight. Really, Giada has already been working overtime to take care of you; she certainly doesn’t owe you any drinks.

Still, you think you might understand. The way she’s been looking at you reminds you of something… someone… yourself. Just as you try to bring your plants to fruition, she’s trying to help you thrive. It’s very sweet.

Of course, now you have absolutely nothing to do. Joining the habitat of pulsating bodies is appealing on some nights, but right now nothing could appeal to you less. A word comes to mind… _wallflower_. It’s not intended to be a pleasant term, but it’s more comforting than anything else you can conjure in this moment. You can imagine a soft, light plant, born of the walls, making its home there, flourishing—but retreating into its bud when taken away. It needs its roots to survive.

You find a seat at an empty table and sit, watching the happier beings in front of you, none of them realizing what they’re missing, how empty their lives are without him, without _Lawrence…_

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The voice barely catches your ears over the din, but it breaks through just enough to get you to look behind you, where someone is rocking back and forth on his heels, looking like he wants to take a seat. It’s not a tall, blond someone, though—of course it’s not. This person is dramatically shorter, with bright red hair growing from his head and… tail?

Well, that’s pretty cute. You do like foxes.

Fox or not, you’re not particularly interested in talking to anyone tonight—anyone who isn’t Lawrence, that is. Still, it would be rude to completely brush him off when he hasn’t actually done anything wrong yet. “It costs more than that,” you tell him. You then nod to the seat beside you, hoping it doesn’t seem _too_ welcoming. Sending out the right signals is mentally exhausting.

The fox-man smiles, and it lights up his entire face as he sits. He’s cute, certainly, but he’s pretty clearly Not Lawrence. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

You roll your eyes—was this just some line? “I’ve got one.” You realize this might look particularly discourteous, given that the drink isn’t actually in your hands yet, but there’s not much you can do about that. “I’m not looking to talk.” And really, even if you were, how possible would that be? Even these sparing words are hard to get across in a place like this.

He looks a little disappointed, his ears flattening slightly, but his grin doesn’t fall. “So you want out?”

You blink. _Want out?_ Of…what, this social situation? Or the club? Well, either way, it’s the same answer. “Yeah.”

He flicks his head toward the front door. Ah, so it’s the latter. But… “I’m waiting for a friend,” you say—and as if summoned, Giada approaches the table, margarita in hand.

“Sorry!” she shouts, handing you your drink. “Line was crazy—hi!” Having spotted the stranger, she sends a bright smile in his direction. As she takes in his appearance, her head tilts. “Where’s the costume party?”

The man blushes, and you notice for the first time how young he looks. How did he even get into a place like this? “I’m Ren,” he says, ignoring Giada’s question.

“Giada.” She returns her attention to you. “Drink up—we should hit the dance floor.”

You look down at your margarita, beads of condensation seeping into your skin. It reminds you of the dewy garden, and suddenly you can’t bear the thought of putting it in your mouth. You’d rather be _anywhere_ but here. “Sorry… I’m really tired. I’m gonna go home.”

She frowns, but doesn’t comment on the fact that you’ve literally just gotten here. “Okay. Lemme just finish this and I’ll drive you—”

“It’s okay! I’ll walk. I… need some air.”

Giada looks sharply between you and Ren. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, merely smiling back at her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You realize suddenly that her invitation to dance might be her way of getting you out of an uncomfortable situation. Is she sensing what you’re sensing? But then, if she is, how could she possibly make you stay?

“Seriously.” You wave your phone at her. “I’ll text you when I’m back. Promise.”

It’s only ten minutes on foot. Her concern is thoughtful—she truly is a friend—but the longer you stay here, the more you feel like suffocating. _This was a bad idea this was a bad idea this was a bad idea this was—_

“Okay.” Giada looks directly in your eyes, and you know she must see the desperation in them. “ _Call me_. Or I’m breaking your door down myself.”

You smile weakly. “Thanks.” And without another word—without even a goodbye—you bolt from the club.

Once you’re out, you find yourself gasping, inhaling great gulps of cold, refreshing air. You couldn’t have stayed a moment longer in that place—not with the people, normal and friendly and _not Lawrence_ and one of them was a _fox_ and wait, why did the fox follow you out?

You stare, wide-eyed, at Ren, still trying to catch your breath. Unblinking, he smiles back at you.

“Feel better?” he asks.

You’re a little too surprised—no, _annoyed_ —by his presence to know the answer to that. “Why are you here?” You notice in his grin that his canines are exceptionally sharp.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Outside, it’s easier to hear the youth in his voice; how did he _possibly_ get into the bar? “You were looking pretty queasy.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” It’s probably a lie, but you don’t feel like explaining yourself to some stranger. Besides, there’s something about Ren that feels… off. He seems different from the regular humans at the community garden, but he doesn’t feel different in the way that you and Lawrence do. In his eyes, there’s something like victimhood, which perhaps should arouse your empathy—but there’s something else, too, something you can’t place. You wish you were in your garden, where the plants would tell you what to do. Your legs push you forward, away, down the street and away from the lights. Away from anyone.

To your dismay, Ren follows you. “Come here. I’ll take you somewhere nice and quiet.” He’s in front of you faster than you could imagine, his hand at your shoulder, bringing your face close to his. His canines glint in the neon sign in front of the club. A sharp prick slices into the back of your neck.

You realize too late that victims sometimes want to fight back—even against the ones who didn’t hurt them in the first place.

“ _Stop!_ ”

It’s a few seconds before you realize the cry didn’t come from your mouth. Someone shoves you aside, tackling Ren to the ground, a flurry of red fur against dirty-blond hair. The two forms snarl together, growling and grunting and shrieking, and one of those voices is familiar, one of those voices is _so familiar_ , and the merged form splits again to leave Ren on the ground, unconscious and bloodied, and Lawrence is standing and gasping and heaving in front of you.

 _Lawrence_ is in front of you.

As he opens his mouth to speak, the darkness takes you.


	3. The Jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for all your kind words regarding this fic. It's been so lovely hearing that the style I'm trying to capture has been effective so far.
> 
> Just a quick note that this chapter is when things start getting sexy, but also kinda... slicey. If you somehow got this far but you find knifeplay triggering or uncomfortable, this might be the part where you want to turn around. That said, if you DO know what you're getting into and you're okay with it, read on! ♥

 

When the darkness leaves, the leaves replace the dark. Literally. Your hazy vision can only decipher leaves—leaves upon leaves upon leaves, at least at first. You awaken, bit by bit, and allow the leaves to build their context. You awaken, slowly and blearily, into a jungle. 

The lush greenery is almost too much to bear. The jungle—no, no, the room—seems to whisper your name over and over, calling for you to take your place among the breathing. The Mother is here, enveloping the deep earth, a sticky dampness hanging in the air. _The Mother is here._ Everywhere you look, you can see plants—big plants and small plants, succulents and bushes and vines and flowers, all humming in a gentle harmony over the buzz of something electrical. It smells of sweet soil and even sweeter… something. _Something._

The room is a jungle and the jungle is a room, and it takes several minutes for you to realize that something is wrong with this picture: You don’t live in a jungle. It’s then that you see him, dishwater-blond hair falling out of a haphazard ponytail down his back. It sends your gaze downward, down, down, down to where his shirt is hiked up just slightly, exposing the pale skin between his shirt and a pair of baggy, grey sweatpants. If only you could reach out and touch… “ _Lawrence._ ”

Lawrence jumps, and you hear a crash. “ _You!_ ”

As he turns to face you, you notice that he seems to have spilled a sticky, white concoction all over the front of his pants—probably just now, when you startled him. He doesn’t seem to notice the mess; his wide eyes are trained only on you. “You’re… you’re… I’m sorry!”

You blink at him. What… which part exactly is he apologizing for? “Um…”

“Are you… I mean, your head, you fell pretty hard, and… I don’t, I don’t know exactly what he did, but it must have been something soporific—you smell like barbiturates—”

Your head. Your… head? You’re a little sore all over, but you feel all right beyond general confusion. Probably, you should be panicking, tearing apart the jungle, finding a way out. And yet, all you can think is…

“There’s _so many plants!_ ”

Lawrence flushes in front of you, dropping his gaze from yours. “Um… yeah. I know it’s… a lot…”

“It’s _amazing!_ ” Energy courses through your heart, through your stomach, through your mind. There’s _so many plants_. Where to start? “How do you keep all of them so healthy? It looks like there’s things from totally different polar structures here— _is that a corpse plant?!_ ”

You jump to your feet—or, that is, you try to. In reality, you shuffle your chair, tipping it dangerously beneath you, threatening to collapse. It’s only now that you realize your limbs have been taped to the seat.

 _God_ , you’re oblivious. But at least you now know where that sickly, rotting smell is coming from.

Lawrence, for his part, doesn’t seem to know what to do with you. This is probably fair. If he’s taped you to this chair, he’s probably a serial killer, and if he’s a serial killer, he’s probably more used to… screaming. You, however, have absolutely no urge to scream.

“It, um. It is,” he says finally, his gaze falling on the plant you’d mentioned earlier. Then, awkwardly, he opens his mouth to speak—and then apparently thinks better of it. You’re both left looking at the plant for a bit too long without speaking.

Finally, you break the silence. “So…” You’re not exactly good with encounters like these, and somehow you get the feeling that Lawrence isn’t, either. “What’s… up?”

At last, Lawrence looks back at you. “Um. Yeah. Sorry about… all this. I…” He seems to be looking past you now, caught up in something that’s beyond tangibility. “I had to.”

Your head cocks to the side, like a confused puppy. “Had to what?”

He shakes his head, once again unable to meet your gaze. “Why are you being so nice?”

That, you realize, is probably a very good question. Why _are_ you being so nice? Arguably, this is not a good scenario for you; people generally don’t fare well when kidnapped in the dead of night by strangers. But… the fox’s face is starting to come back to you. You remember Lawrence’s lithe body, writhing on the ground, pinning Ren down in defense of you. He _saved_ you. How could he be bad?

Of course, you can’t deny the fact that you’re a little bit… different from the average person. You are always seeking something a little more, something to satisfy the hunger within you, a need that refuses to be sated by normal means. Everyone is a little too tender, a little too careful. They don’t know what you can take. Yes, there is something deeply appealing about a person who could tear you from limb to limb—but this is not why you feel so calm.

“Because I like you,” you say, and as the words leave your mouth, you know they’re true. You like him—Lawrence. Not just because he’s dangerous, but because he’s… different.

His eyes widen. “No, you don’t. That’s…” As his thoughts continue, he seems to become more and more agitated. “Why are you… what… _why are you lying to me_?”

His words send a chill down your spine—and yet, all you want is to be closer. “Lawrence,” you say, hoping that the sound of his name doesn’t frighten him, “I’m not lying. I like you.”

His wide eyes narrow, and you notice something in them you’d not seen before. “You’re a liar.”

This should be frustrating, and yet… you feel like you might understand what this is like. Maybe Lawrence has never felt liked before. “You don’t have to believe me,” you say calmly. “But why else would I be so nice?”

“You’re trying to get away.” He grits his teeth, and as he does a vein throbs in his forehead. Clearly, you have not succeeded in de-escalating the situation.

 _You’re trying to get away._ It’s not a question, but you still have to think hard about your answer. Why would you need to get away? You’re still not over the fact that you’re here, _with Lawrence_ , in what appears to be his _home_. You’re exactly where you want to be; it’s only just occurring to you that he intends to keep you here. _Get away_ , he says—and maybe you should. Maybe, if you work hard enough at convincing him that you’re no danger to him, you’ll escape. Maybe you’ll be all right, and this will just be another of a million memories, like a dream, like a fantasy. Maybe, if you play your cards right, you’ll get away.

“I don’t want to leave.”

Like everything else, this is the truth.

Like everything else, this does not soothe him.

“ _You_ ,” he moans, his fists clenched beside him. “Stop lying.”

There is nothing you can do to convince him of your truth. All you can do is put together your own pieces. “Thank you for saving me.” You don’t reveal that you could have handled Ren on your own. Lawrence was so _daring_ —so brave—there’s no need to take that away from him. You really are grateful for his help.

“That’s…” Lawrence pinkens. “He shouldn’t have tried to take. He was greedy.”

“So greedy,” you agree, eager to match Lawrence, eager to find as much common ground as possible. “I guess Giada was right to—”

Oh.

You glance out the wide window beyond him, where the blushing glow of a low sun turns the surrounding buildings into silhouettes. You have no idea what time it is, but it’s definitely been more than ten minutes. Giada is not going to be happy.

“Um,” you start weakly, “do you… have my phone? I was supposed to tell someone when I got back to my place, but obviously I didn’t get there, so she’s probably really worried…”

Lawrence stares at you. “Someone’s… worried?”

“Yeah, my friend—” You stop when you notice the panic that’s starting to ease into Lawrence’s face. “Wait, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“You…” He flushes. “You can’t have your phone. You can’t…” He groans, pushing his hair out of his face, his fingernails pressing white against his forehead. “Okay. It’s fine. It’s _fine_. I’ll… deal with it.” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or to himself. “It’s _fine_.”

“Okay…” Not being able to have your phone should be a red flag. All of this is pretty, um, problematic—so why do you get the feeling that the pounding of your heart has nothing to do with fear? “Um. What should I… do now?”

To be fair, there’s little you can actually do in this position. Surely he knows that. Still, rather than answer you, he turns away once more, busying himself with something else. His hands seem to be shaking; whatever he’s doing is causing a bit of a clatter. This isn’t the time, you start to think. There isn’t enough time for the both of you.

“I’ll make you tea,” he says suddenly. It makes his clattering a little clearer—there’s mugs, a teapot, a light steam permeating the humid air. Hey—you like tea.

“Thanks!” you say brightly. “What kind is it?”

Unexpectedly, he seems to get even more nervous. “It’s. Um. Mine, my own. To… keep the pain away.”

“The pain?” His words frighten you for entirely the wrong reason. “What do you mean?”

“Um.” His voice trembles as much as his hands do. “It’s just, um. To help take care of things. I’m gonna deal with it. It’s all fine. But… I don’t want to hurt you.”

He’s so sweet, so gentle, though his words hint at something that makes you feel as if your gut is filled entirely with hot, red blood. His kindness is addictive. You want to lap it up, be filled with it, become one with his sweet demeanour—but you don’t want what he wants for you.

“No, thank you,” you say, your voice quiet but firm. “I don’t want any tea… not for that. But I’m sure it tastes really, really good!”

His expression darkens. “I insist.”

“But…” How can you explain this? “I… don’t want to keep the pain away. Whatever you’re doing, Lawrence… I want to feel it.” You want to feel it—no, you _need_ to feel it. The strength of your connection with Lawrence is agonizing and violent and beautiful, and you need to experience those feelings as much as possible for as long as possible… in every way.

Confusion filters through his brow. “It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

“I… I know.” You don’t ask how he knows how painful it will be—whatever ‘it’ is. “That’s part of why I’m being so nice to you. I want this.”

You can tell that your words aren’t helping. He isn’t going to believe you, not when everything you say is so unbelievable. How can you convince him?

In your fussing, your gaze falls on a bright, well-cleaned knife kept beside his bedside table. Struck by inspiration, you nod over at it. “Pick that up.”

“ _What?”_ Truly, he seems to consider you the strange one—and truly, you are.

“Pick it up,” you say again. Then, realizing it sounds too much like a command: “Please.”

Looking utterly bewildered, he follows your request. The rosy sun glints briefly from it to your eye, reminding you that you still have no idea whether it’s a sunrise or a sunset. All you know is it gleams ruby, reminding you of the blood pumping within your veins and rushing through your heart.

You squirm at the thought, instinctively seeking friction between your legs. Maybe… maybe soon.

His gawky figure looms over you as he approaches—and yet, he seems small, even fragile. He really doesn’t seem to want to cause you any pain. Your heart swells at his gentleness, at his care; there’s something so special about this one.

He bends down, bringing the knife to your forearm. You know, of course, that this is an area where the pain is at its lowest. Even with you practically begging for it, he’s being so careful. But… “Use it,” you breathe. “Don’t try to spare me. Use it in whatever way _really_ helps what you’re trying to do.”

He hesitates, avoiding your gaze. “You don’t… have to…”

“I want to.”

His hand trembles a little as he changes his tactic, free fingers lifting the shirt that hangs loosely around your stomach. You wish you could steady him, but he is, of course, out of reach. Your belly feels warm even when exposed, the humidity of this indoor jungle bathing you in sweet fragrance. He uses his non-dominant hand to keep your abdomen exposed, and then brings the knife against your skin, not yet breaking it.

“I have tea,” he says again.

“Cut me, Lawrence.”

His blade eases slowly, almost softly, into your flesh. At first, it’s so gentle that you can’t even feel anything beyond a slight stinging, little beads of blood starting to appear across the line. Your breathing slows, allowing you to savour the sensation as Lawrence presses the knife deeper. It’s nothing lethal, nothing overwhelming, but the blood starts to flow, deep red spilling over the wound. It starts to _feel_ , deep and dark and frightening and wonderful. When he edges his knife downward, fully under the skin, you whimper.

Your noise startles him, causing him to jerk backward unexpectedly, yanking a chunk of your skin with him. The sudden streak of pain turns your whine into a sharp gasp.

“I’m sorry!” Horror strikes his eyes, which are trained on the blood that shimmers against your belly. “I… I’ll get the tea—”

“No!” The word comes out too strong, too urgent, and you immediately worry that you’ve upset him when the panic in his face refuses to soften. “No,” you say again, more gently this time. “I mean… please, Law… this is… I want to feel it.”

Your words carry more sexual energy than intended. You’re practically begging, practically drooling, craving the feel of his blade deep within. You need this, and that need is dripping in every syllable. And, finally, Lawrence seems to get it.

Understanding lights your captor’s eyes for the first time, and although the change is almost imperceptible, he nods. “You… like this.”

You beam at him. “Yeah!”

There’s a moment then—a moment when his gaze is intertwined with your own, inviting you to explore what lies beyond his ice-blue eyes. As you delight in just looking at him, you feel him probe your soul, as if searching for something. For your part, you forget about anything that isn’t Lawrence; all you need is him. All you need is Lawrence.

His lips part, and he breaks the moment with his voice. “…Okay.”

Oh, thank the Mother. You eye the blade hungrily, trying not to seem _too_ obsessive, and he thankfully doesn’t waste too much time before approaching again. His free hand goes once more to your shirt—but he freezes. You look down and see that in falling down, your shirt has begun to collect some of the blood. A lot of the blood. The thought makes the space between your legs feel warmer than ever, but…

“Sorry!” Lawrence says, for what feels like the millionth time. “I have… I can, um, wash that…” You don’t bother to wonder why the cleanliness of your shirt matters, given that he clearly intends to kill you. Boys are just weird that way, you guess. Still, you couldn’t care less about clothing at this point.

“Don’t,” you urge. “It’s in the way. Just cut it off.”

He flushes. “I… what?”

It’s funny, but even with your neediness, you’ve never felt so patient. “Cut off my shirt, Lawrence. It’s in the way.” The more you say it, the truer it feels. In fact, every bit of fabric touching you, everything against your skin that isn’t either him or his blade… it all feels too restrictive, too cumbersome. You wish there was nothing between you two, that you could become wholly one.

So at least he can start with your shirt.

He doesn’t seem to want to argue; maybe you’ve gotten your point across that what you say is what you mean. Without another word, he curves the blade against the hem of your shirt, aiming upward. He pulls the cloth far away from you, as though taking care not to cut you where it’s not necessary. While this care is definitely not needed—while you yearn to push yourself into his knife—you’re sent reeling at how sweet he is. He is so gentle, so kind. You’ve _never met anyone like him_.

The fabric of your shirt tears easily; the knife is sharp, so sharp it seems to cut through the woven material like butter. Finally, he reaches the collar, and the tension of your clothing falls away, dropping against your arms like a sort of loose vest. Your breathing has shallowed so much that your chest heaves, and it comes as no surprise to you when his hand accidentally grazes against the curve of one of your breasts.

“S-sorry!” He jumps back and, again, accidentally cuts you in his own panic. The wound is shallow, a tiny slice against your breast, but at the sight he only seems more panicked. “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

You look down at the beads of ruby threatening to spill over into your bra, and your heart flips. You didn’t even feel that one, it was so quick, so shallow… but the sight still makes you hungry. You open your mouth to reassure Lawrence, but you freeze when your gaze falls on him.

He looks hungry, too.

Lawrence’s wide eyes are trained on the tiny wound, his stare something carnal, animal. As if a walking cliché, he actually licks his lips. What’s more, you realize suddenly that the grey sweatpants he’s wearing don’t really leave much up to imagination. You could easily camp under that tent.

The knowledge that this moment is mutually sensual only spurs you forward. Your breath only seems to get shallower and shallower, pushing your breasts over and over again into the half-light. When you speak, it comes out shaky, high-pitched, squeaky.

“Do you… want a taste?”

Lawrence, unsurprisingly, turns crimson—and then nods, though he seems incapable of moving. You know you need to take it upon yourself to direct him, at least in this.

“Take it,” you whisper.

Lawrence moves forward, still looking awkwardly tall and gangly in the dim light. When he bends down, it’s like he’s folding himself into a cramped and tiresome space. The whole world must be too small for this man.

He lowers his lips to the wound, first pressing them to you in a chaste kiss. When he pulls away, however, he opens his mouth, releasing his tongue to slide against your skin, pulling back every bit of blood that has already spilled over, leaving a clean line in its place. He doesn’t stop there, though, going back in for more, pressing his teeth into you, sucking in, pulling the blood beneath your skin, drinking you in, taking you until you’re left whimpering and whining, squirming in your own arousal.

When he finally pulls away, a deep bruise circles the wound, the outline of Lawrence’s teeth on either side. His eyes meet yours, and you’re surprised to see how dark they look. You’re reminded suddenly of a previously docile predator, finally taking its first taste of blood and falling into a frenzy. Something is different now.

He lunges forward, crashing his lips onto yours.

The kiss is shocking, but you quickly relax into it, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you, cherishing the iron taste of your own blood pressing past your lips. He forces his tongue quickly into your mouth, sloppy in his embrace. It’s obvious that he’s inexperienced; his teeth clash against yours, and he’s so eager that it’s hard to know how to respond. You don’t mind. It’s more than enough just having him here, taking you eagerly, giving you an undeniable feeling of being wanted. You press back, not too fussed about your own technique, just trying to let him know that you want him too. You want him, you want him, you want him.

Lawrence grunts into your mouth, and before you know it, he’s straddling you on the chair. You gasp as you feel his hard cock through his pants, the intake of air almost making you choke on his tongue. You wish you weren’t burdened by the constraints of the tape holding you down; all you want to do is touch him, run your fingers through every part of him, let his body wash your soul clean. On the other hand, being restrained like this makes your heart pound. You are truly at his mercy.

Finally, he seems ready to start touching you. One large, calloused hand presses into your breast, his thumb rough even through your bra. Meanwhile, he’s still kissing you like an animal having its first meal in weeks. You respond physically as much as you can in this position, grinding your pelvis against him, crying out in your own desperate need. Lawrence’s noises, on the other hand, are much less whiny. Oh, he certainly releases a whimper or two, but for the most part, he grunts and moans against you, his breath hot and ragged, each sound like a release of ferocity from his throat. The carnality of it all almost destroys you.

You feel a sudden release around your chest, and when you open your eyes you see he has the knife once more. Your bra has been cut away, leaving your whole chest fully exposed to him. He grasps one of your breasts hard, then bites into your neck, so ferociously you half expect him to pull out a chunk of you using only his mouth. Meanwhile, his blade moves lower, cutting away at the waistband of your gardening shorts. They’re loose and easy to cut, but his previous care has been abandoned; he’s not even looking at what he’s doing now. The blade slices into your skin on more than one occasion, even digging deep into your thigh. The pain screeches into your ears, over and over, silenced only by the return of Lawrence’s lips on your own. When exposed, your underwear is already visibly ragged from where he’s cut too deep, blood seeping into the sides. None of your wounds are threateningly deep, but there are so many.

Lawrence breaks away for a moment, glances down, and grunts in apparent frustration. You understand the concern; there’s still a lot of fabric here. He tosses his knife to the side, grabs the middle of your leftover shorts and underwear, and yanks hard. It comes apart in his hand, leaving you totally exposed. The man lets out a laugh that’s almost a bark, and then pushes his sweatpants and boxers down just far enough to reveal his cock.

He practically jumps back onto you, and the force of his action sends you both careening backward onto the floor, chair and all.

The sudden crash seems to break the spell, and Lawrence pushes himself away from you, his eyes wide.

“Sorry! I—are you okay?”


	4. Lawrence Got Closer

Lawrence's words— _Are you okay?—_ are odd in your ears, as if he’s rapidly getting closer, then farther away. It doesn’t help that you’re stuck on your side, trapped by the bonds of the now-overturned chair. Fortunately, his hand did keep your head from totally smashing against the floor, and you don’t think you have, like, a concussion. You’re disappointed, but optimistic. Although his cock is no longer anywhere near your legs, it’s still quite visible, precum pooling over Lawrence’s tip even as apparent terror streaks his gaze.

“I’m fine,” you start to say, except that the words don’t come out that way. What you actually say, in a high-pitched squeak, is this: “I want you.”

Lawrence, of course, flushes almost purple. “Um. Okay.”

Mercifully, his awkwardness doesn’t impede the next part of the process; he grabs his knife and cuts away at the tape that still binds you to the chair. Suddenly, you’re free, potentially able to run without a single additional scratch. You could escape right now—but escape is the last thing on your mind.

He brings you close, using your body as a crutch to pull you both your feet. The remaining cloth on your body falls away as you stand, leaving you flush against him, fully naked, fully vulnerable. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be. “I’m…” he starts, but the sentence doesn’t go anywhere. His veracity is gone, his gentle care returned. You press your finger to his lips.

“I want you,” you say again. At least this time you say it at a normal pitch. Then, you press your lips to his.

This time, it’s different. Now that you’re guiding the process, Lawrence is no longer almost gagging you with his tongue; instead, you pull him into a series of quick and delicate kisses. It’s still messy, still something he’s obviously not used to doing, but he responds to your movements with his own. Every touch is a question from you to him, from him to you. Every answer is yes.

You trace a button on his shirt, giving another question which is met with another yes. His shirt comes away and you run your fingers over his bare chest, moving downward to find his shaft, taking him into your hand. He whimpers against you.

“I want you,” you murmur, over and over again. “I want you.”

As you stroke his cock, slowly and deliberately, his touch is tremulous. You can feel his pulse through your fingertips; you can feel your pulse in your throat. As his excitement builds, however, a word rips from his throat:

“No.”

You pull back, startled, ashamed. Where did you go wrong? “N-no?”

He looks away. “I… I mean…” His gaze fixes on his cock. “I want it… in.”

Oh.

Understanding better, you guide him to lie on his bed. When he’s safe, you climb on top of him, your knees on either side of his abdomen, his cock hard along your cunt. The heat alone is enough to make you want to rip into him.

“Lawrence.” He’s not looking at you, but his fingers twitch where they rest above your hips. “Do you want this?”

His whole body burns against you. When he finally meets your gaze, it’s his eyes that sear the most.

“Yes.”

With his affirmation at your ears, you ease yourself onto his cock. It’s long—much longer than you’re used to—so you don’t take it all at once. Just lowering yourself against the tip seems to stretch you to your peak, and Lawrence’s gasp only makes you tighten instinctively, pulling him deeper, making him yours.

Slowly, slowly, you ride him. It’s a good thing everything he does—everything he is—has you aroused, because his length is impressive. You can hardly breathe, even though you have all the control; Lawrence doesn’t push forward, seeming more content to lie and take it. You wonder if he’s ever done this before. Somehow, he doesn’t seem like the most experienced person in the world.

All the more reason to make this perfect for him.

You lean forward, peppering kisses into his neck. As you breathe in, you find yourself emboldened by his scent—mustier than sex, sweeter than strawberry. He sighs, tilting his head, giving you greater access. As you kiss him, you take him deeper and deeper, slower and slower. He whines, his eyes falling closed.

“Is this good?” you breathe, letting your lips gravitate toward his ear, taking his lobe into your mouth.

He grunts.

“Do you want more?”

He opens his eyes again. “Y-yeah.”

You give him what he wants, taking him faster now. The harder you fuck him, the deeper his whimpers become, ferocity growing in his gaze. You take him, at last, to the hilt, pushing against his chest for support. To your shock, he grabs your wrists in an iron grip.

The danger is back. He slams into you, catching and losing your rhythm, making it his own. As Lawrence fills you, fucks you, as his steely gaze hardens against your hazy consciousness, you find yourself building toward an orgasm. Surely, then, so is he; a man with no apparent experience is more than likely to cum well before an experienced man. And yet… Lawrence doesn’t seem to be near his peak yet. It’s almost as if he’s just getting started. The thought thrilling, so thrilling that you rise ever higher in your pleasure, until at _last_ you’re thrown over the edge, your body losing its control in climax.

Lawrence barely seems to notice what’s happening to you, slamming harder and harder against you even as you clench hard around his cock. The vicious smile across his features suggests that he’s having a good time, but there’s frustration beyond it. By now, you are practically a doll he’s using for his pleasure, but for some reason it isn’t enough.

Your fingernails dig half-moons into Lawrence’s chest. It’s too much, too strong, too painful. You need a break, but he’s not satisfied yet. Teeth clenched, he groans: “I want… I want…”

“What?” Your voice sounds a little more desperate than you’d intentioned; this was not what you expected would make you feel truly helpless.

“I want to be… closer.”

Closer.

He’s already inside you. Your brain, sluggish from afterglow, tries to understand how you could possibly be closer. There has to be a way, but…

As you stare to the side, trying to find a way to organize your thoughts, a memory of bloodred light blinds you for a moment—the reflection of the sun bouncing off a once-pristine knife.

Closer.

You pull your whole body to Lawrence’s, smothering his movements, stilling him as best as you can with a deep kiss. It takes him off-guard, making him freeze just long enough to pull yourself, achingly, off of his cock. The absence stings, and your limbs are wobbly, but you manage to bring yourself to your feet and retrieve the knife.

You could kill him right now.

Lawrence makes no movement, even as you wield the knife. He barely seems aware of the danger he’s placed himself in, but perhaps that’s because there’s no real danger at all—not when you’re handing the knife directly to your captor. As you straddle him again, relinquishing the weapon, you whisper once more into his ear.

“Get closer.”

Lawrence understands—just as you knew he would. He takes the blade, tracing the scabbing line across your belly, and re-opens the wound. This time, he is less careful; the blade digs deeper, pressing past several layers of skin into the depths of your body. Your afterglow is not enough to divorce you from the pain; it flares deep within you, aching to be released in a scream, choking you with its intensity. When the full line has been reopened, Lawrence drops the knife to the side—but he’s not done with you. With his fingers, he pulls the flesh apart, ripping you open, deepening the hole that threatens to expose your organs. The pain is so deep that you find yourself almost ready to vomit.

It’s everything you could have dreamed it would be.

“Closer,” Lawrence groans. You can’t tell if it’s a question, a wish, an affirmation. Now, more than ever, you are weak, his ragdoll to do with as he pleases—and he does, holding himself deep inside you. He withdraws his fingers, now covered in gore, and stares at them—tastes them. As he pulls your insides into his mouth, his eyes nearly roll back into his head.

Lawrence lifts you from him and, as if you were nothing, throws you down on the bed. Now he’s the one straddling you—but his positioning is farther north than yours. He’s doing exactly what you wanted: He’s getting closer. With his left hand pulling your stomach wound open, Lawrence shoves his cock into your gut.

This time, you do scream, your natural instincts forcing the sound from your throat as the pain blinds you to all else. His cock is so much stronger, so much harder than his fingers; your mind has gone almost blank, the noise of agony so loud that it turns to silence, turns to ecstasy. He is here, with you, so much closer than anyone has ever been before. Lawrence is deep inside you; you have never felt so entwined with another person.

His movements are rough, fast, hard. It doesn’t matter, anyway—fast or slow, all you can feel is pain. Through the edges of your vision, you see his face—illuminated. His eyes are filled with such joy, and that in turn brings you joy. You’re giving him exactly what he wants. His canines, sharp and gleaming in a brilliant smile, push apart as he himself lets out a ringing cry.

The pressure of pain deepens as he clutches you harder, falling into his release, filling your stomach with his cum. As he meets his climax, your vision blurs more and more, finally fading away completely.

The last thing you see is his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not even remotely the final chapter.
> 
> Thank you for all of your sweet comments! I get so happy when I read that people are appreciating this fic. <3


	5. Vacancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, this... this isn't a representation of any sort of healthy relationship. This story will never portray a healthy relationship. And to that end, I'd say this is the only chapter where nonconsensual sexual activity takes place (the character is into it, so nothing happens that the character actually doesn't want). I just want to clarify, though, that this stuff wouldn't be okay in real life. But then, if you're a BtD fan, you probably already know this.
> 
> Otherwise, thanks for your patience re: this update! I was pretty busy with moving countries, dealing with my grandma dying, moving provinces, starting an internship... it's been wild. But this whole story is planned out for you guys, and I'm really excited to hear your commentary. Y'all are the best readers.

You wake in a daze, unsure if you are truly conscious or still caught in a dream. In sleep, your mind was filled with tantalizing images, bright and agonizing and wonderful, with you only beginning to understand any of it. The events of Before seem unreal, impossible—and the events of Now are even less likely. You wake in a daze, unprepared to feel Lawrence’s cock deep inside your cunt, but that’s exactly where it is.

He’s fucking you again.

Yes, you have apparently woken to the force of Lawrence thrusting into you, his strokes short and thrillingly fast. You waste no time wondering just how long he’s been using your body like this; it feels too good for you to care. Through half-closed lids, you see sweat form like crystals on his forehead, his teeth pressed so hard into his lower lip that it is almost pure white.

The sensation of being desired by someone so desirable feels almost as good as your body’s physical reaction to him. In fact, as his pelvis collides with yours, you find yourself moaning—a bad idea. Lawrence lets out a yelp and propels himself off you, falling off the bed and onto the floor.

You’re not awake enough to fully conceptualize what’s happening, so he reacts first. “You’re alive?!”

Okay, so that’s probably a weird question from someone who was just balls-deep in you. On the other hand, this is someone who was balls-deep in your _gut_ the last time you were awake, so everything about this is pretty weird, _and_ it’s probably a fair question. Unfortunately, your ability to wake up in the morning can be likened to that of a computer running Windows 95, so this isn’t really a conversation you’re equipped to have at the moment.

Besides—you were really enjoying yourself just now.

“Mmmm,” you manage. At least it sounds like an affirmatory noise. “Come back…”

His cock is still hard, still slick from your own lubrication, and he does seem completely eager—if a little freaked out. In his eyes, you can see a battle waging between his remaining sense and his desire. You never thought you’d want him to lose a battle, but it turns out there are still plenty of surprises to be had.

“Uh…” Lawrence tries.

“Law,” you whine, “it felt so good… don’t stop…”

Bewildered, he returns to the bed. He returns to you, allowing for no more hesitation, sliding his cock back into your cunt. He takes you for himself and you cling to him, arching against his body and losing yourself to his rhythm.

Afterward, Lawrence collapses beside you, somehow managing not to touch you at all despite the narrowness of his bed. You, on the other hand, can’t take the distance, and immediately rest your head on his chest. He doesn’t pull away.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly. “How… how are you alive? Earlier… I felt… I mean, your ribs, they tasted so…” Wait. Your _ribs_? You must have really missed out on some things while passed out—but that’s not really what he’s asking about right now.

Well, it was going to happen sooner or later. He was going to need an explanation when, after everything, you continued to live. “I… _can’t_ die. I’m not really…” How can you explain this? “You can’t die if you’re not alive. Not really.”

You’ve never had to explain this before. Normally, the people who try to kill you die before they get the chance to see how much you can bleed.

“I’m here to lure all the bad people away, Law. They’re attracted to me—like wolves to a steak. And then they find me, and they try to hurt me, but they can only go so far. And then… I take them all away.” You snuggle into his chest. “I take all the bad people away to leave things nice for the good people. Like you!”

Lawrence makes a small noise in his throat. You glance up at his face and see that he’s blushing again. He avoids your gaze. “I’m… I’m not good.”

You know, deep down, that Lawrence has probably done some terrible things. There’s no way you’re the first person he’s brought to this place, and it’s already quite obvious that necrophilia is completely within his morals. Still, he doesn’t seem to be malevolent. He’s just… misguided.

“You’re so good,” you say, and you mean it. “Look at how well you take care of all of these plants. This place is like Eden, all because of you. You’ve given so much of yourself, Law. It’s beautiful. _You’re_ beautiful.”

He’s quiet for a while, though you do notice his flush deepen under your compliments. And it’s not just that; with every nice word you offer, his cock hardens beside you. It’s hard not to notice. Before you can take initiative and lower your lips to it, however, Lawrence speaks again. “You really can’t die.”

Hypothetically, you suppose you could—but nothing has ever been able to tie you fully to death, and you doubt anything Lawrence does is going to change that. “I can’t die.”

“Wow.”

And strangely, he seems to accept it. Yes, you’ve never shared this with anyone before, but you always sort of felt that if you _did_ , they would probably… take it differently. You would have thought this to be a completely unbelievable thing, but Lawrence… he accepts you.

Lawrence accepts everything, you think. At least, he does when it comes to you.

Now that the conversation seems to have come to its close, you finally shuffle down, giving his erect cock the attention it seems to crave from your mouth. He doesn’t complain.

* * *

When you next wake, you are uncomfortably alone. Lawrence’s narrow bed seems far too wide without him, and your body feels cold in its solitude. You’re far more awake now, bolstered by the adrenaline of _where is he_. It’s not a large apartment, but it seems immensely void in his absence.

You realize vaguely that it’s been a while since you used the restroom, so you decide to focus on that instead of Lawrence disappearing. Surely, he’s just off doing… whatever it is he does. Now that you think about it, you really don’t know much about him. You know that he likes plants, that he’s awkward, and that he’s not above kidnapping people and fucking their dead bodies.

Why are you so convinced he’s a good person again?

Now is not the time to worry about that. If Lawrence shows himself to be worthy of your wrath… well, you’ll give it to him. Just the thought, however, makes a lump form in your throat. Never in your life (or death) have you wanted to protect someone this much. To harm him—to destroy him as you have done so many others—it causes an ache in you that you can’t bear to explore.

You have to pee.

It’s pretty easy to figure out where to go, given the size of the studio; there’s only two doors, and the door covered in locks surely leads outside. The sight of that door makes your heart lurch with a protective instinct, so you quickly tear your gaze away and enter the restroom. Even here, there are plants everywhere. They reach their tendrils into the bathtub, across the mirror, even along the ceiling. It’s a comforting sight, these beings that ask nothing of you, think nothing of you, existing solely because of Lawrence’s love and dedication. His actions fill you with warmth, the evidence of his work keeping your anxieties at bay as you use the toilet.

You consider—out of pure curiosity—checking his medicine cabinet, just to see what’s inside, but the thought of actually doing so seems unnecessarily invasive. The only problem is that without him here, you’re at high risk of boredom. The apartment is cozy, but it occurs to you that to some, it might be a prison.

To you, it feels like a home.

As you wash your hands, you hear some sort of clattering from the main room, like repetitive, jangling metal. You breathe a sigh of relief; if there is noise, then your captor has likely returned.

And he has. When you open the bathroom door, you see him standing there, surrounded by some plastic bags that he seems to have dropped to the floor in front of his newly-unlocked door. He stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He stares at you like he’s afraid, and it’s this that suddenly fills you with dread.

“You’re here,” he says simply.

Your mental warning bells are overridden by the sheer handsomeness of his features; you’re so caught up in the fact that he’s here, that he’s real, that he’s _beautiful_ , that you fling yourself at him, throwing your arms around his neck in an enthusiastic hug.

“ _You’re_ here,” you say.

Lawrence doesn’t react at first, and truthfully, you hadn’t expected him to. After all, he’s obviously not used to displays of affection, and this is a major one. It’s okay if he acts a little awkward. The problem is that when Lawrence does react, it’s to push you away.

Confused, you look up to your captor, having to crane your neck to meet his eyes at this angle. Those eyes, you realize, are cold, steely, hard. His fear is gone, replaced with something else—something far more sinister. The pit in your stomach deepens. “Lawrence?”

When he speaks, his voice is like ice. “I thought you were gone. I came home and you. Were. _Gone_.”

You feel your brow furrow as you take in his words. You thought you could read this man, but you can’t figure out what he’s trying to say. “I was in the bathroom…”

“ _You were gone!_ ” The words come in a scream this time, and before you can even think you are ducking out of his way, avoiding a hard blow from one of his powerful fists.

“Wait—Law—”

“Why couldn’t you just stay where you were?” He doesn’t try to punch you again, but he does step toward you—and, instinctively, you step back. Immediately, your body weakens with guilt. Just this morning, you told him he was a good person; how can you back away like this?

"I... I just... I had to..." The words fall, lifeless, on your tongue. There isn't much you can think to say. "I had to pee," you say at last. As lame as the words sound, all you can offer is the truth.

It doesn't matter, really. He barely seems to notice your explanation. "You should have stayed. You should have just... ugh!" His eyes are wild, wilder than you have ever seen them. He looks, once again, like an animal, but this time he is caged, trapped in his own mind.

"I'm sorry." You hate how meek your voice sounds—as if you're scared of him, apologizing to appease him. You pray that he doesn't take it that way. You're not scared of him; you're scared for him. Something has gone horribly wrong, and you don't know what to do to make his mind feel at ease. You just want him to be happy. "I should have stayed. I wasn't thinking—I mean, you were gone, and I was worried that you might not come back, and... Law, please, let's just slow down. Come here.”

You open your arms to him, yearning for the support of his body, yearning to become one with him again. Maybe if you hold him close enough—hold him deep enough—he'll be okay. Maybe you can make it all better for him.

He stares at you, looking at you in a way that you can't read properly. It's as if he's looking from a window, or from a TV screen; his eyes are glazed, glowering intently but not appearing to actually see you. You want to close your eyes against his stare, but you can't look away. Not now. Not when he's so... vulnerable.

Lawrence steps toward you again, and this time you don't move. This time, you stay.  "Come here," you whisper again. "Come here, Lawrence. I'm sorry. Just hold me, okay?"

He comes closer still, ever closer, until his body is almost flush with yours. From here, he seems so tall—so very, very tall. His face is striped in the shadow of a spider plant hanging over you. When he raises his hand, you feel your heart flutter in your chest.

His hand circles your neck. His other hand joins it—hard. Before you can understand at all what is happening, you are slammed against the wall with the force of him, pinned by an iron grip that squeezes into your throat, crushing your trachea, making you gasp in vain for air. Your hands, weaponized through talon-like nails, claw instinctively at his arms—but to no avail. Perhaps you can't escape because you don't want to.

 _Lawrence_ , you say—no, the words are thoughts, not voice. Your voice is something of the past, and your vision is starting to join it. The shadows on his face darken, darken until all you can see is a pair of agonized, terrified eyes. And then, nothing, nothing except a final call from the plants surrounding you. There are no words anymore—just a sensation, a warning. This is not to be.

 _Come here_. _Please._


	6. Vibrational Frequency

Yet again, you've lost part of your time to darkness. You can't remember how long it's been since you've felt light—real light—warm your skin. You begin to wonder if wakefulness is a thing of the past, or if perhaps all of this, all of everything, is little more than a dream. It is all seeming less and less permanent. Maybe the thought should disturb you, but you know well enough that it's better to simply enjoy the now, the this, the moment. That's been even easier these days, because the now and the this and the moment have all included Lawrence. It's hard to mourn for any imagined past when this reality, whether real or not, includes someone like him.

And he  _is_ here. You're not certain where _here_ is, exactly—not when your vision is only slowly returning—but you can hear him. You can smell him. Your body is warm with the sense of his beingness, even if sunlight is far away.

You can tell that you've left Lawrence’s apartment. The wash of his humid room is absent, replaced by a cool, damp breeze. This, along with the dank scent of mud and the faint chirps of night animals, makes you think you must be outside. As your vision swells, you find yourself in the grayscale of night, deep, deep, deep in... a forest? You remember how Lawrence's home had first felt like a jungle, but this... this might be real.

Well, as real as anything else, anyway.

The shadows of your vision give way to the shadows of trees—tall structures, but thin and lacking the lush leaves you've come to expect from your encounters. As you scan over them, you notice strikes of white along these trees. Bones. Skulls and bones, apparently of animals—an antelope, perhaps. Ivory bones are scattered all around, pure as the owl's hooting from above.

Your feet, you realize, are cold as ice, wet against the ground. As you try to look to them, your neck meets resistance. It's only now that you notice you are not lying down, but rather strapped into an upright position, taut ropes all over your body to keep you confined against a tree. You think you can see the edge of a muddy pond; maybe you're standing at its shore. The cold, whatever it may be, seems to radiate past your skin. You can feel your own bones, now, feel them gleaming inside you like the ones outside you, only a few feet away.

One of the trees seems to sway, although the breeze hardly seems strong enough to bend its structure. At this thought, you hear the tree that you're strapped to chuckle. The Mother chastises your foolishness, and you know then that the moving tree is nothing of the sort.

“Lawrence...” you say softly. You are surprised at how hoarse your voice sounds. Why—oh. You remember his hands on your neck, crushing you with his immense power. It will take a while, then, for your voice to return to normal. That can be a little annoying, but it's a fine price to pay for spending time with him. Except... as your memories return, you recall that you and Law ended things on a bad note. Hopefully, in the darkness of who-knows-how-long, Lawrence has forgiven you for abandoning him. You never meant to do that. Indeed, you can't be without him.

Lawrence steps toward you, and you take in his features all over again. His face is startlingly boyish. He is a man, certainly, but there is an innocence in his eyes that seems at odds with his actions. Is this what you want so much to protect? Is this why you feel ready to rip out your own heart, tying it to his chest?

He is silent, and it kills you—figuratively speaking. “Lawrence,” you try again. “I've missed you.” And you have, for every moment spent at any distance is one that leaves you hollow, whether or not you are conscious for it. When his lips open, you think your heart might leap from your chest to his all on its own.

“I need you to stay here,” he says at last. He's now so close to you, barely inches away, yet too far. You want him inside you, however he can be. Still, it's comforting to hear him speaking directly to you, giving you the gift of his voice. As much as you ache at his distance, you warm with the pleasure of being important to him.

“Okay.” At first, you try to whisper, but it won't... it doesn't come out right. Ugh. Stupid healing process. “Okay,” you say again, this time loud enough that the cords in your throat can vibrate. You're certain you can feel them, as much a rhythm as the pumping of your unnatural, impossible blood. “Come here.” You wait, but he doesn't come closer.

The whispers of your surroundings are not from the life humming in leaves. Instead, the song comes from decay—from mud and from reaperlike worms and from darkness, from a world that doesn't see sunlight. You strain to hear their words, but it's too muffled, too chaotic to make out. Or perhaps it's drowned out by the distance of Lawrence, his absence growing louder and louder in your mind.

“Lawrence,” you call again. Your vocal cords are vibrating so quickly, your voice so high. You can see it in the back of your teeth. “Come here. Please.”

And then. And then.

And then he is there, his thumb at your collarbone, his nose against your cheek. He is there, his blade plunged deep into your chest. 

You realize you are naked before you realize the pain—but the pain does come, rocking against your heart, vibrating as a thunder in your ears. It cracks, a spiderweb pattern from the wound into your whole torso, splitting your vision. You don't think you scream; you think you gasp, a low and hollow sound burbling with the blood that you can already taste, the blood that wants to drown you, drown you in the river.

It won't, of course. But as Lawrence drags his knife down, extending the wound along your organs, you think the pain takes you there—only for a moment, a moment of being carried away by a current that never finds its bay. You can feel it through the mud under your feet. You can feel the fish swimming through you.

When Lawrence's knife meets your gut, he gives it a twist before wrenching it back, wrenching it out of you, tearing himself and parts of you away. You can feel your body buckling, but it's forced upright by the bloodstained ropes. You have collapsed, and yet you stand. You are in agony, and yet there is no place you'd rather be.

_Lawrence_ , you try to say. _Come here_ , you try to say. But with the damage he's done, there will be no words until you can restore yourself.

Using a strength that sends ever more blinding agony through your bones, you raise your head. In what's left of your vision, you can see something of his shape, of his colours. You can see his eyes, and just that fills you all at once with love again. Although there is fear in his gaze, it is impossible not to feel drawn to him. You want him to taste the blood from your mouth—and, to your shock, he does. He leans into you, bringing his lips to yours, delving his tongue past your lips and drawing your blood into his own. As he kisses you, you swear you hear him swallow. He drinks from you—drinks of you—and the music of your pulse comes to a crescendo even as your thoughts threaten to fade away. Unwilling to miss a second, you force yourself awake. After all, you have superhuman endurance; you should experience as much of this as you physically can.

Lawrence continues kissing you, drinking you, and as he does you feel his hands move to your torso. They find the center of your chest, the center of your wound, the depths of your agony. His fingers caress the edges of the wound; they press lightly past your skin. Your body responds, of course, twisting instinctively as if to get away, but his body and your will easily overpower nature. He draws his fingers back again, finding those edges. Grabbing hold. Slowly, slowly, he pulls them apart—pulls your skin apart. He pulls your skin apart with his bare hands, peeling it back, tearing it,  _licking_ it. Yes, his mouth has left yours, and now it is inside your chest, inside you. You swear his pulse has become a metronome. You swear you can feel it inside you.

He peels back your skin and he dives in, his hands entering you deeper and deeper—and then leaving. To your dismay, he backs away, leaves you there, leaves you alone.  _Why?_ You can't ask the question, and you can't beg him to come back. Surely he knows that his absence is the most agonizing of all.  _Lawrence_ , your soul calls.  _Come here._

When he returns, he is not alone. When he returns, he reaches inside you again, and inside you he leaves... something. Someone. Dozens and dozens of someones, crawling and buzzing and wriggling through your body. Pulling themselves deep inside you. Becoming part of you. Destroying you—for a time.

He leaves them inside you, and you can almost taste them. He pushes more and more into you, filling you, swarming you. Surely, you are now more bug than body. You are more decay than creation. They feast on your skin, your muscles, your organs, and all the while Lawrence comes back, kissing you again and again, drinking you as if he is drinking away the life you haven't had in a very, very long time.

Just as you are certain your consciousness has nothing else to give, you sense him moving back again—farther, now. It's this that gives you the heart-stopping idea that Lawrence might not come back this time.

Your consciousness is giving up. It's lasted so much longer than any human's ever could, but it can't last forever. You need to sleep. You need to dream—but you don't want to. You can't lose him, not again, not to darkness, not again not again not again not... again...

Not.

Again.

But darkness rips him away from you.

Again.

* * *

And when the light comes, he is there. Again. He stares at you, as if unable to understand what he's seeing.

“Lawrence,” you say—and you do say it. Your voice has returned, along with most of your body, although neither is currently operating at its best. But that doesn't matter right now. All that matters is that he's here, and you're here, and your heart feels so light and so joyful and—

“You shouldn't be like that,” he says dully, and the words are worse than any blade. And suddenly, he's not looking at you anymore. Suddenly, he's turning around, and he's walking, and he's walking  _away._

He's  _leaving_.

“Wait!” Your voice, roughened by everything that's happened to it, breaks into a shriek. “Lawrence—wait, don't go—”

And just before he disappears, Lawrence does turn around. Lawrence looks at you, and he opens his mouth, and he looks as though he's going to say something—and then he doesn't.

And then Lawrence leaves.


End file.
